


Fear

by AustralianSpy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen, Post The Great Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:12:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AustralianSpy/pseuds/AustralianSpy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first time, Sebastian Moran's hands shook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fear

Jim Moriarty slips his phone back into his pocket, waiting patiently just outside of the back entrance of a certain pool. A certain pool in which he’d had a lovely little chat with a floppy-haired detective. It doesn’t take long for a man to emerge, stowing a rifle case over his shoulder with a grimace.

“Ye ready, then, boss?”

Jim can tell by the look in the sniper’s eyes that he wishes to ask far more than just that, but is refraining. Such good judgement on his part. Jim is pleased, and it undoubtedly shows on his smug face. But there’s something else he can see. It appears as if Sebastian is waiting for Jim to scold him.

“I certainly am, Sebastian.”

 

Sebastian gives a curt nod, running a hand through his hair. “Right. I got th’ car waitin’ for us already,” he says, eyeing Jim.

“Excellent,” Jim returns, turning at once on a heel to stride in that direction. “I have business to take care of immediately.  We can’t have even a moment of delay.”

Sebastian doesn’t answer, but Jim can feel the man’s pensive presence behind him, following. It isn’t long before they’re both sliding into the back of a private car. Sebastian sets his rifle down at their feet, on the floor, then sits back.

The following silence is palpable, and only serves to amuse Jim. Finally, Jim broaches the subject first, saying, “I know you want to ask, so do so.” He glances sideways at the sniper, who is chewing his lip apprehensively.

“Who was that, on th’ phone?” Even after asking the question, the sniper still avoids his boss’ gaze.

“No one you’re particularly familiar with,” Jim says. He leans his head back against the seat, turning it to watch Sebastian with dark eyes. “But I’ll tell you, regardless. Irene Adler.”

Only then does Sebastian’s gaze dare to dart to his employer’s. “I’ve heard’ve her,” the man says.

“For some reason, that doesn’t surprise me. But having heard  _of_ her doesn’t mean you  _know_ her, yes?”

Sebastian carelessly shrugs up one shoulder in dismissal. “She doesn’t seem like yer type ‘f acquaintance, either. Ye don’t usually hang around... her kind.”

“She has made a very  _interesting_ offer in regards to our favorite protagonist.”

The sniper’s face twists into a bit of a scowl at the allusion towards the consulting detective. If Sebastian were to reach happiness by putting a bullet through the brain of another man, that man would be named Sherlock Holmes. There isn’t a man alive that the sniper detests more than the arrogant sod.

“S’ what? We’re just gonna go along with her?”

Jim neglects to answer for a good five minutes — Sebastian counts the beats in his head. He had distracted himself with his phone, but finally looks up. “You’re unimaginably dense sometimes, Sebastian,” Jim sighs, and the sniper folds his arms over his chest defensively, looking offended. “You act as if it’s a dangerous thing, working with her. We’ve got nothing hinging on her cooperation. In fact, her success is dependent almost entirely upon  _our_  aid. There’s nothing to lose. We —  _I_  — get nothing from her aside from the satisfaction of toying with the Holmes boys.”

Sebastian grumbles something under his breath about that being the only sort of pleasure Jim wants from the world.

“In any case, the Virgin has to still be  _living_ for us to toy with him. Quit that muttering.”

The sniper presses his lips together silently. Jim was correct in his earlier assessment: he still had plenty of questions to ask, aside from those pertaining to the caller’s identity. Namely, they all want to know  _why_. Why? Why is Jim so willing to risk his life just to match wits with Sherlock Bloody-Fucking Holmes? Why would he even allow someone like him to point a gun at his face? Someone that would undoubtedly pull the trigger without a second thought, if his little pet blogger gave the nod of approval — which he  _had_ , goddammit. Why would Jim get himself killed and just leave Sebastian all on his own?  _Why_?

But Sebastian voices none of these, though he can feel Jim eyeing him and undoubtedly noting the flicker that passes across his face as each question rattles around in his head.

The silence continues for some time, after. Sebastian turns his head to stare out of the window at the buildings as they slide by. People making their way across the sidewalk don’t spare their car a passing glance, oblivious to the sniper’s eyes upon them behind tinted glass. Off to his left, Jim his humming quietly. Some tune that Sebastian doesn’t recognize. His skin crawls the entire time they travel without speech. He can sense Jim’s eyes on him now and again, dark and mocking. He’s biding his time, and the sniper knows it. He’s waiting to interrogate him.

When?

“Your hand was surprisingly unsteady, back there.”

They’re not far from home, when Jim speaks up, his voice carrying in a lilting jeer close to Sebastian’s ear. When the man refuses to respond, Jim continues on.

“I’ve never seen your beam shake as much as it did when the detective’s mutt grabbed onto me. Your game was quite off, Sebastian.” The criminal pauses, his voice lowering to a derisive purr. “Were you scared, tiger?”

It’s precisely what Sebastian has been waiting for. He didn’t think for a second that that little detail escaped his employer’s notice. Bloody bastard.  _Scared_. What is he supposed to be, at the threat of Jim’s imminent demise? And of  _course_ he fucking knows that. He should just leave it alone — he would, if he had any sense of propriety — but it’s Jim Moriarty, and he can never pass up an opportunity to ridicule Sebastian. Never, when he can mock at the sniper’s expense.

“What kind of a fuckin’ question is that, huh?” Sebastian growls, avoiding the other man’s tauntingly accusing gaze. His eyes narrow, and he can see their blue light staring back at him in the glass. The sight of them — the wounded look in them — is almost as unnerving as staring into Jim’s.

“Language, Sebastian,” Jim tuts in a sing-song voice. “It’s a  _valid_ question.”

Almost before the car pulls to a stop, Sebastian is throwing his door open. He drags the rifle case out with him, roughly, the end of it banging against the door. “Fuck off, Boss,” he snarls before slamming the door shut. He’ll pay for it, later: the rough language, and offensive insubordination. He knows it, and yet he storms his way into the house, nevertheless. His pride is hurt, as much as his feelings are. But he can’t admit that to Jim, and he can’t face him like this. Because no matter what he does, the man can inevitably read him like an open book.

Sebastian doesn’t hear Jim enter their home; he isn’t sure how long it took him, or how long he’s even been locked in his own room. There comes no rap of knuckles against the doorframe to announce his entrance, as Jim comes flourishing into his sniper’s room. Of course, he has picked the lock to let himself in. The only way Sebastian has ever managed to keep his employer out was by sliding his wardrobe in front of the door.

“You haven’t answered my question, tiger,” Jim drawls, his voice patronizing. He saunters his way to the bed which Sebastian was strewn across. Sebastian pulls a pillow over his face with a noncommittal grunt, to avoid responding. He can’t see him, but he can feel Jim’s disapproval scalding him.

“Understand that answering isn’t optional, Moran,” Jim’s voice adds from somewhere off to the side, the now dangerously low sounds muffled by the pillow over Sebastian’s head. Wearily, the sniper lifts it from his face. He knows that tone anywhere, and knows just as well that he should fear it.

“What d’you think, huh?” Sebastian scowls, propping himself up on his elbows. “What kind of a shit question is tha’?” He has a feeling that his words are irritating Jim, but his face remains maddeningly neutral. “Ya could’ve  _died_ , you fucking twit. Y’ want me to just be okay with that?  _Oh, Jim’s about had his brains blown out, no big deal_.” His voice reaches mockingly high pitches as he snips out the last statement.

Jim sighs and shakes his head with such utter flippancy that it makes Sebastian’s gut coil into a tight, cold knot. How  _dare he_ care so little about his own life.  _How dare he not care what that would do to him._  “You have no say in the matter, Sebastian,” Jim says. “You’re my employee, and if I tell you I’m going to put myself in front of the barrel of a gun, you don’t question me. Understood?”

Sebastian’s hands clench and unclench in the sheets on the bed — a microscopic display of the anger and fear roiling around heavily in his chest. “Right,” he mutters through gritted teeth. Won’t question it.”

“Good.” Jim’s still eyeing him though, arms folded over his chest. He doesn’t believe him. “Steady hands next time, or I might have to replace you with someone who  _cares less._ ”

Sebastian sets his jaw, expression cold. “‘Course.”

Jim watches him for a moment longer before he gives a curt nod and turns on a heel to saunter back out of the room. Sebastian’s eyes follow his path, staring after him long after his employer has gone. He wants to scream. He wants to throw things and storm out of the room and grab Jim by the collar of his stupid suit and shake him until his teeth rattle.

But he knows it won’t do an ounce of good. He knows nothing he does or says will really affect how Jim acts. His hands can tremor and shake each time he points a scope in Jim’s direction. He can let the constant fear that one day he’ll wake up and Jim’ll be gone eat him alive.

But no matter what he does, nothing will change. It seems like Jim’s wanted to die ever since Sherlock Holmes walked into their lives.

Bastard.


End file.
